


Dénouement

by mambru



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 00:35:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mambru/pseuds/mambru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can destiny be averted, even through distrust? Politics makes strange bedfellows, as Cersei Lannister discovers in the last desperate days of her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> These events occur near the very end of the story.

Her memories overwhelmed her. There had been green flames, rising lovely to the sky above Pisswater Bend, where the revolt had begun - throngs of starvelings boiling toward the Red Keep, and the last of her forces and Strong thrusting them back toward the fire, and it was beautiful. And then their torn dead had begun to twitch and rise, and attack her soldiers and the mob below impartially, and she had seen a man with his skull cleft to the brows stand and walk to the palace gate and strike at the locks with his axe, indifferent to the blows of the frantic Lannister defenders, and she had shrieked and run back inside and demanded of Qyburn that he touch off all the wildfire caches, why was not all the city burning as she had ordered - and yes, the one under the Red Keep,too; the world was ending, surely an end in fire was cleaner than at the hands of a corpse. Qyburn had nodded (there seemed green flames in his eyes - who had his allegiance been to, really? Even now she did not know). He'd scuttled off into the tunnels, and she had drunk deeply of the enriched wine that Robert had so enjoyed before he died, so deeply that when the dragon swam past the palace window she had thought she had seen drunken visions.

Her memories became fragmented then. It seemed time had tiresomely turned backwards, leaving her again in the High Septon's cells with septas hectoring her, though this time they were calling her a demon instead of a whore, while she begged them for wine, wine, wine - shivering and trembling uncontrollably in her thirst, swatting imaginary spiders off her body. And then she was at some sort of trial in the Great Sept of Baelor, except it was in one of the seven hells, and the High Septon stood in the judge's place a corpse with a scorpion's tail twitching beneath his habit, casting anathema on her. She had screamed back at him that she was content with being dead if he was dead too, and the gods could cram him sidewise up their holy asses if they'd been fool enough to choose him as their judge. She felt an unholy glee when she saw his lips compress with rage, but the flames running up her arm were so cold, so cold...

And then there had been the convulsions - lightning bolts stinking of blood and smoke followed by darkness and waking knowing nothing but pain in every nerve, soaked in her urine and weeping and crying for wine and her mother. The septas had treated her not ungently then; they had spoken to her soothingly, had washed her and dressed her in clean nightclothes and spoonfed her broth as if she were an infant. They were different than the other septas - they wore habits of a sleepy blue-grey color, and the cell was a different cell, with a real cot. Exhausted as never before and remembering nothing, she had found a trace of comfort in giving herself up to them completely, lying inert and letting their strong arms lift and turn and swaddle her warmly,and she would dream that she were back in the nursery at Casterly Rock, stretching out her arms from time to time to touch dream-Jaime lying besides her in the cradle.

When she had gotten a little better she had begun to remember, to ask them questions, briefly, and they would answer them briefly; Cersei was in the Red Keep, in a tower cell. Yes, Tommen is well. Myrcella is well. Jaime is well. You will see them when you are better. These answers had at first contented her (it takes strength to be a lion, and I was a sheep then, she thought bitterly) But as her mind became clearer, she had begun asking more complicated questions...was it true Jaime had taken the usurper Sansa's part in the fall of the city? Were Tommen and Myrcella in their quarters or the dungeon? Were they to be executed? - their lips pressed together. At best they would vouchsafe that they knew little and were allowed to tell less; she would know these things soon. Her mind becoming clearer, she had realized that though her care was in the hands of the septas, they were frequently overseen by two ladies-in-waiting who wore the gray-and-white livery of the usurper queen (the "Maiden Queen", Cersei had heard Septa Edda call her once) with its embroidered sigil of the dove over a quartered shield with wolf, hawk, trout and stag. The ladies-in-waiting were two young girls who never answered when Cersei questioned them; they glanced in her cell and talked to the septas, who would briefly report her behavior.

Her questions, unanswered, became curses and threats, and finally, exasperated, she had flung herself at them, sick of their professional kindly expressions. It was startling how readily that maternal looking septa had caught her wrists and pinioned her while calmly calling out for the guards. Thereafter there were septons as well as septas, and there was a donnybrook when two of them sat upon her arms while a septa carefully pared her nails, and when she lashed out again she would be put into a canvas jacket whose ridiculously long sleeves tied together in the back, so that she could not use her arms, and so she would stay until she promised to be good. At the beginning it would take days before she would bring herself to submit convincingly, and a septon and septa would stay with her to make sure she wouldn't tip over and break her skull, and they would help her up from her bed and the septa would lift her gown behind when she had to use the chamber pot while the septon would ostentatiously turn his back.

Once, bored out of her mind during one of these vigils, she had asked the septon (a scarecrow-like man of surprising sturdiness; she had managed to get a few punches at his torso during their last struggle and it had been like hitting an oaken washboard) just what order they belonged to.

"The Hospitallers' Order of the Mother. We used to run the King's Landing Asylum."

"Am I thought mad?" 

"Why no, m'lady, not that I know of. But treating a case of the horrors after hard drinking is something like treating a violent madness, for a time."  
"Well, I'm better of that, now. Why have they not changed to ordinary guards?"

The septa who knitted besides him (there was another instance of the bizarre propriety with which she was treated - they restrained her and tied her up, but she was never left alone with a male without a female chaperone) remarked, "As to that, m'lady, I heard that the queen had given especial orders that you be treated gently, and given that you've been fractious, I supposed she thought we'd be more the likely to manage without hurting you."

As she digested that information, they had gone on to reminisce fondly together about how wonderful their order had been at running the asylum and treating the lunatics firmly yet gently, their cleverness at dousing the violent fury of maniacs, and resourcefully keeping the suicide from doing himself in till his little misgivings about life had passed. This happy state of affairs had changed when winter closed in harder and longer than any in memory, when the allotments of food had stopped and the Gold Cloaks had closed off the Asylum doors and told them that if the inmates did not die, the Cloaks would kill them, and their keepers.

"It's been done in the winter, before," said the old septon. "But not the last few. To do it to Poor Tom and Old Agnes and the rest...ah. We gave them almost all the milk of the poppy we had left, mixed it with scumble to make a sort of dreamwine - they'd been on short rations for months, they were mostly glad to drink it, though I expect many of them knew something of what it meant, by the looks they gave me. And when they were asleep we took 'em up one by one and laid them soft outside in the snow, so that it would be the winter that killed them and not their blood on our hands..."

"They say it's a very pleasant death." the septa interjected robustly. "That you get all numb and don't feel the cold anymore, and drop off peaceful-like - I'd say with that and the dreamwine, they never knew a thing."

"That's as may be." the septon muttered. "But what stays with me the most is after the were dead, and cutting up the bodies..."

"What?"

"To feed to the dogs, of course." Cersei especially disliked this septa, the air of condescension in her reply. "Those were still the days of the dead rising."

"Didn't you burn them?"

"Oh, now, m'lady, none but royalty could spare wood for an errand like that by then. Every tree around King's Landing for two days' ride has been cut down by now, and all of it had to be used to heat the living. Even human dung is dried and burned - and what with being short of food, there's little enough of that, too. Makes a stench, but better that than freeze. All through King's Landing there are men digging up the sites of old privies like they were mining gold, to sell the contents at fifty pounds weight for a pound of rotten turnips." The septa looked down her nose at her. "You knew nothing about that, didn't you? Ah, well, the noble never sees small things from the top of his lofty tower."

"We cut them up and fed them to the dogs," muttered the old man. "And 'twas a good thing we had those curs, for we could kill them and have sommat to eat without being cannibals..."

"Though you did have to be careful there was no stray fingers in the gut when you was dressing them for the table." the septa interrupted.

"Hush up, Edda. And they say that dog meat is the best for scurvy, if you don't cook it overmuch. But it's a dangerous thing lest the dogs become so used to human flesh that they'd take it into their heads to try it warm and living off the bone. And fair chilling it was when the sun went down and I saw the fingers of the hand I'd cut off start to twitch..."

"Now you hush, Emmerl." the septa said vigorously. "It does us no good to dwell." She besought him to pray instead, and together they had begun to drone a long, long hymn in a irritating monotone until Cersei had screamed at them to stop. They had promptly done so; it was maddening how readily they obeyed her will in things that matttered not at all.

She'd hoped for more information from one particular septa, an ugly grandmotherly creature who'd seemed to treat her with a certain absent-minded fondness beyond the professional soothing tone of the others, as if she took Cersei for some long-lost daughter of hers she'd mislaid somewhere, which was why Cersei had thrown her wooden bowl of porridge at the wall instead of in her face, when the old woman had also refused to answer.

"You wicked creature!" the beldame shrieked after boxing her ear and pinioning her arms (quite astounding forearms she had, for a grandmother). "A child could've been saved from starving with what you just wasted!" She had then had her put in the strait-waistcoat for a day and henceforth spoke to Cersei only briefly and coldly. It exasperated Cersei no end to realize she minded.

One morning she'd been woken in her cell before dawn, puzzling over a mysterious sound; it was a long time before she recognized the trickle and drip of running water on her tiny shuttered window. The snow on the roof was melting. 

A few days later the usual septa did not enter her cell at the usual hour with her tray. There was something of a to-do outside her door, a muttering of several voices. Then she heard one loud and clear voice. She recognized it as belonging to one of the ladies-in-waiting; the plain girl with the long narrow pointed nose, the one that looked like a prissy young septa, though her accent was pure Vale peasant. "No, Jeyne, don't bring the kettle in, she's like to throw it at us. Just have them fill the tub out here and push it through the door."

The door was unlatched and opened and Peasant girl came in carrying Cersei's tray. "The lady's breakfast," she announced. Cersei had been called far worse things than 'the lady', but it still grated on her; the very lowest form of polite address; so low that it was hardly polite at all, refusing even the courtesy that 'my lady' granted of acknowledging the addressed woman as her superior. 

Cersei looked at the tray and started. Besides the usual bread and gruel with scant raisins was a cup of wine instead of the usual water. A trick, she thought, she ought not to drink it - but her hand reached out of its own accord and she tossed it down. A vile Rhoynish vintage, but she wished there were more than one swallow, even though it made her dizzy after so many months without. 

As she choked down breakfast, Peasant went out the door and returned with the other lady-in-waiting, a girl who might have been pretty but for the scarred tip of her nose, as if a rat had nibbled it; frostbite, no doubt. There was a faint familiarity about her face. They carried clothing and towels, and behind them two guards pushed in a copper tub slopping steaming water, and left it there, closing the door behind them.

"The lady has an audience with the Queen today. We've come to help you bathe and dress." Peasant announced.

She had finally remembered the girl with the nibbled nose. "You two. A manure-shoveling serf and a brothel's leavings. Fitting companions for King's Landing's latest queen."

Frostbite girl flinched, but Peasant merely smirked and dipped an ironic little curtsey. "The lady does me too much honor." She set her bundle of clothes on the bench. "Would the lady deign to accept our aid in scrubbing?"

"May the lady tell you to stuff those clothes down your ill-bred gullet?"

"The lady may drown for aught I care," the girl snapped. "Her Grace has requested this be offered you as a courtesy, and so I offer it. Turn it down if you please."

"And may I turn down your Queen's invitation to this meeting, as well?"

"The queen is courteous, yet she is the queen." The girl looked her up and down. "If you like, go as you are and get what joy you can of offending the queen's eye and nose. Just remember, you may be seen by many others beside the queen." Cersei glanced down involuntarily, noting the ragged gown she had been wearing for a fortnight (at least) the crescents of dirt beneath her nails. If today really were the day of her execution, would it not gratify her enemies to see her so?

"Better decide quick. The water's getting cold."

Without a word, Cersei stripped off her shift and stepped into the water. And oh, how delicious it was to feel the heat of the water on skin so chilled it had long forgotten even the feel of hot water relaxing tense muscles as it lapped against her thighs and back. The girls knelt beside her, and it had to be admitted that they served her about as well as any of her own maids had, as they soaped her back, and oiled and washed her hair. She was startled to recognize the dress they had brought her; one of her own, an scarlet wool that she had had to discard as too tight, even before the first time she'd had to discard her crown. It was a fairly simple gown, but here in this cell, its color was a vivid luxury; she drank it in, rejoiced in the softness of its wool, the sensous feel of its silk lining over the crisp cleanliness of her new linen smallclothes. She was heartened to see that it fit once more; that it was even a trifle loose, that the girls had to lace it tightly in the back and whip a few quick stitches to draw in the slack there. Cersei remembered the glimpses of herself she had caught in mirrors in the last few weeks before the final fall, her body swollen and straining against the corsets of even her newer, larger gowns, her face bloated with drink; then she had turned away from herself in horror. Now - now she probably weighed less than she had since she was a girl. I've had a rest cure, she thoguht ironically as she sat at the edge of her cot and gave herself over to the girls' hairdressing ministrations; they took quite a time carefully combing out the tangles before they began to braid it.  
"Looser." she told them imperiously. "I don't like it pulled back so severely from my scalp."

They hesitated, and Cersei thought the peasant girl, at least, would argue; but they unbraided her hair and did as they were told. She felt them bind her coronet of braids with cunningly tied ribands, and felt regret that they had not allowed her so much as a hairpin as a weapon. 

The ritual was soothing; from a lowly prisoner in rags she had become a lady once more.

Finished at last the girls anointed the pulse points of her neck with scent; she drank in the spiced perfume greedily; the finishing touches. Then, like any other well-trained maid, the peasant girl lifted to her gaze a polished silver mirror, that the lady might approve of her reflection before going on to the day's business. Cersei looked into her own eyes and froze.

Her hair was almost all silver and white; only the faintest traces of gold yet streaked it. Lines were acid-etched on her hollow-cheeked face; the loss of weight had nearly withered her breasts away; she looked a skeletal sexless crone. Only for a moment did the girl hold up the mirror, but the image remained before her; a piteous old hag, a lost frightened look in her sunken eyes. Cersei dropped her stunned gaze to the coverlet where the comb lay forgotten; its teeth were clotted with knots and tangles of gray hair that had come loose, no matter how carefully the girls had worked.

She did that deliberately, that girl; that slut's mistress told her to do that to demoralize me. Rage began rising in her, but it only found expression when the peasant stepped to the door and called out, "Hound."

And there he was, and all her fury found a target and she flung herself at him, hands stretching to his face, yearning to tear that hideous scarred flesh."You! Traitor, turncloak, filthy betrayer. You coward, ran away from Joffrey when he needed his guard, left us to take the cause of our enemies, of her...You..." She called him vile names, names meaning kinslayer, congressor with beasts, defiler of children, the worst terms she had heard from the dregs - a stream of obscenities poured from her mouth as she thrashed at him, feeling a vast frustration that her words could not express a thousandth part of her rage. He parried her blows easily, caught her wrists firmly. She lunged forward to bite, wanting over all to open those old wounds on his face and neck, make them bleed afresh. He shoved her sharply back, only his grip on her wrists keeping her from tumbling backwards to break her skull on the stone floor. As it was she lost her footing; he took both her wrists in one hand and pulled her back to her feet with the other. Undaunted, she lunged at him again, but he held her back easily with one hand on her shoulder. She could not free her hands (his grip was like a manacle), held immobile, she spat again and again in his face. His hand moved from her shoulder to her face, pushed her jaw shut with a painful click as his fingertips dug hard into the scant flesh of her cheeks. 

"Enough." he growled. "You're going to see the Queen today. You can go like a lady of Lannister, walking with dignity and your head held high, and we'll give you that nice cloak to wear. Or you can go scratching and spitting like a rabid shadowcat, and we'll dress you in that canvas waistcoat with the sleeves that tie in the back and drag you along by the elbows. Your choice."  
She felt weak from the sudden exertion; it was hard to get her breath. The Hound held her still and waited in silence. 

"Tell me truly. Am I to be executed today?" she whispered.

He met her eyes. "I can't know for sure, my lady. The queen's not obliged to warn me before she changes her mind. I can tell you though, that there is no plan for it at this time."

The girls put the scarlet-lined ermine cloak about her shoulders, the Hound took her arm and she walked unresistingly down the long spiral stairs of the tower, the girls following behind.

"Have you nothing to say to me of all I just said to you?" she presently asked.

He shrugged. "'Tis true, as far as it goes; I was a craven the night of the Blackwater, and I'm an oathbreaker. But I ever told you I was no knight. And while I may regret breaking some promises, abandoning my service to your family wasn't one of them. I more regret my cowardice in not having done it sooner."

She shook off his arm in disgust. He did not insist on holding her, let her walk a pace or two ahead. The corridors were empty, probably cleared for the occasion of her passing. She heard one of the servants approach the Hound behind her; the whisper told her it was Peasant.

"T'isn't safe, you know it. You can talk to Her maybe. She'd listen to you." (Cersei could hear the capital letters in her voice.)

"Talk to her? I have. And yes, she does listen. But you know she decides on her own. Did you check her well?"

"She's not got the slightest sharp thing in her clothes or on her anywhere, I swear it. Not so much as a needle or a fishbone. But still - it's not safe!" The girl's whisper was frantic. "She's vicious. Septa Edda told me it took three of them to hold her down the last time she fought, and they had to fair sit on her. It's not safe! Can't you stay with them?"

"Enough," the Hound snapped. "Her Grace knows what she's doing."

They mean to leave me alone with her, Cersei thought in shock. They mean to leave me alone with the Queen, and that wretched servant's afraid of what I could do to her. And...isn't she right to be afraid?

I could kill her, she thought. I don't need to have sharp things. I could do it with my hands and teeth. The Hound quelled me, it's true, and those septas, but they're used to dealing with madwomen. That girl - that frail, treacherous girl, my true enemy all along...I could...

The Hound stepped ahead to an outer door and opened it for her. She blinked at the sunshine outside. It was cold, and there were still great patches of snow in the shadows of the walls, but it had melted from the gardens, which showed brown soil with the faintest haze of green - the first grass blades. She stared, almost reluctantly captivated by the sight. He led her along one of the garden paths, and it took some while before she saw that they were walking deeper into the garden, not toward the main building. "Where..." she began, raising her head, and stopped. The Godswood was before them. 

As in a dream she walked forward. Her steps slowed, nearly stopped, and the Hound took her elbow again to impel her along. She could not recall ever having returned to the godswood after her talk there with Eddard Stark. It looked so different now than that day - the trees bare, drifts of snow unmelted in the shady places. And yet she recognized every turn in the path, every rock, every crooked tree. And at every step she felt a heavy dread grow greater, as if Lord Eddard himself were there still where she left him that day...waiting...

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

The trees of the garden had been mostly cut down for firewood, but the Red Keep's godswood still had its trees, though the ground was swept free of twigs. She knew this pine, this path, this rock - and here was the very last turn, and the clearing opened out before her. Slowly her head turned to look at the heart tree, where Lord Eddard had met her that day. Her breath caught when she saw his figure reclining there - but no, it was just a few cushions, piled on a rug, no one there.

"Welcome, my lady."

The familiar voice. She turned.

She suddenly remembered a trip to Lannisport when she was twelve. Septa Winfrid (the one with the absurd enthusiasm and the entertaining speech impediment) had insisted as part of her education that she see some frescos in an old sept that some long-ago artist had painted. She had even dragged Jaime along from the sparring yard. The sept had been ridiculously small, in the older, more rundown part of town, completely unlike the Great Sept that Father had endowed. They had gone into the dim old place, and Cersei had wrinkled her nose at the fug of cheap tallow candles and squinted about her. And gradually, her eyes had adjusted and ghostly images rose up around her, and took on reality.

The frescos glowed in the candles lit below them. The ancient plaster had faded and flaked, but the soft mist of color still coalesced before her into a figure of a girl, the Maiden. That girl had been golden-haired like a Lannister, not much taller than herself as she stood on painted rocks above their gaze, dressed far more simply in flowing white. And yet she forgot to compare herself, indeed forgot herself completely as she looked at the girl, sweetly human in her flesh of tender rose and ivory, and yet more than human. Depending how you looked at her, you could read her faint smile as shy, with a secret curve of sly humor (as if you shared a joke), kindly, gently challenging. And her eyes saw you, as she looked at the world and unselfconsciously let herself be looked at. 

She had stared for a long time, as the septa chattered away something about "the passion and compassion of youth, its tenderheartness, its idealism, its hopefuless innocence and impetuous courage, that casts itself readily and wholeheartedly toward noble causes, be they mercy or charity or gods-sanctioned love - in her you see all its virtues without its vices..." Of course, with her lisp it sounded like all "ith virtueth without ith vitheth" and ordinarily Jaime would be standing just behind her elbow and making a rabbit-toothed expression while imitating her lisp in an undertone (since she also had the virtue of being slightly deaf), but he was standing in front of the Warrior with the same expression that Cersei knew she she herself had worn a moment ago - so enthralled she had been hardly aware of herself at all, except as a longing to be that which she looked upon, or at least to measure up to it.

After a long moment, she realized she had been staring at the girl seated on the grass before her as raptly as she'd gazed on that work of art so long ago. She realized she was standing silent - that they all were - awaiting humbly for it to be that girl's pleasure to speak. She realized that that girl who looked so attentively upon Cersei must have seen her discomfiture, though she gave no sign. 

Not a word spoken and already she has won a round, Cersei thought bitterly. I stood there and gaped at her like a peasant seeing his first fireworks. It was hard, so hard to think clearly after so many months of monotonous confinement, but she must rise to this challenge. This audience meant something. If the Queen deigned to speak to her instead of beheading her straightaway, there was something she wanted of Cercei, something she needed. Cersei needed to marshall all her wits to understand what was happening - and use it.

She narrowed her eyes and tried to dissect the spell that had held her briefly in thrall. The girl was beautiful, of course. The red-gold of her hair spilling over her shoulders took flame from the stray ray of sunlight she had so artfully chosen to sit under, and so did her thick lashes, effectively setting off her blue-green eyes. She wore no ornaments, and her dress was simple (another thing that reminded me of that fresco, Cersei thought). It was a gray silk with a square-cut neckline - just low enough for men to admire the merest hint of cleavage while more than high enough to ape seemly modesty. She reclined gracefully on a heap of cushions spread upon a cloth on the grass and propped against the small boulder that she leaned her back on...most informal, yet effective. All mummery and poses, thought Cersei contemptuously; yet her gaze kept returning to those blue-green eyes, so intent upon her. And once there, she found it hard to look away.

She forced her eyes away, to the cloth the girl sat upon, a sort of gray fur bolster tucked warmly about her feet. There were cups set by her side, Cersei noticed, and wineskins, and bowls of dried fruit and sweets. The Hound pulled Cersei to her appointed seat - which was on the cushions set exactly where Ned had lain, so long ago. Sansa sat across from her, about eight feet away - out of easy reach. 

"So, my lady Cersei," she spoke, and her eyes caught and held Cersei's gaze again, "we have lived to see the spring." She spoke the ritual greeting with a smile, as if to a friend. "Who would have thought it - of either of us?"

Cercei made no reply; nor did Sansa wait for one. She reached down, took up a cup and wineskin. Carefully she filled the cup, and overfilled it, and the wine slopped over and dripped to the ground; Cersei felt herself begin to salivate. Sansa raised the brimming cup to Cersei in a toasting gesture, then drank a few swallows from it, till the cup was no longer in danger of overflowing. Then she handed the cup to one of the maidservants, who brought it to Cersei.

The ancient ritual of a hostess reassuring her guest that the wine isn't poisoned, Cersei realized, as Frostbite put the cup in her unresisting hand. I should not drink it, even so. I should be keeping my head clear. But the unmistakeable bouquet of Arbor Gold reached her nostrils. She took care, at least, to keep her sips ladylike, though her hands shook with eagerness as she savored. She looked at the cup when she'd emptied it. It was a gaily painted Dornish gourd shell - too lightweight to make a good missile, and the white wine would not stain Sansa's clothes even if Cersei did manage to throw it so far. The queen had thought of everything. 

The maidservants brought similar bowls of nuts, sweets and small cakes and set them within Cersei's reach. It was, she thought whimsically, the sort of easily portable picnic a knight might pack in a rucksack before he disguised himself with a cloak to slip discreetly away with his married lover, so that they might enjoy a pastoral luncheon on the grass before he picturesquely tupped her under a spreading willow.

And how, exactly, is this girl proposing to fuck ME over? she wondered.

There was a sudden whistling flutter of wings over their heads and a grey-brown mourning dove lighted beside the queen. Cersei almost laughed - it was TOO ridiculously perfect to see the girl solemnly feed it a crust of cake. The Peasant set out a bowl with a peeled orange broken in sections. There had not been fruit like that in King's Landing for almost two years.

"King Jalabar Xho sent us those as one of many tokens of his esteem for restoring his throne." Sansa remarked. "It turned out to be rather simple - a matter of three galleys and a hundred picked knights and their men were enough to drive his usurper from the capital, though I understand the men in armor nearly fainted from the heat and after winning that war half the peasant soldiers deserted - they found the Summer Islands too lovely to return here. It was worth it - most of the fruit has gone to treat the worst cases of scurvy in the hospitals, and the smallfolk are learning to cook taro root..."

"For gods' sake don't mock me with your flaunting of the power I used to have, confusing me with news I haven't gotten because I've been in your prison cell and don't know if all that you're telling me is lies." Cersei snapped. "You've something to say to me. Something you want of me, else you'd have left me to rot in that cell. So out with it."

Frostbite looked at her in shock, as though she'd belched rudely at a ladies' tea. The Hound stepped forward with narrowed eyes, hand going to the hilt of his sword. "Mind your manners."

"And now your Kingsguard bravely threatens an unarmed woman. A fine bodyguard, that one. I wish you joy of him. May he serve you as well as he served us."

Sansa smiled with what looked like genuine pleasure. "Thank you, my lady, truly. For if I ever demanded such services of Sandor as the Lannisters demanded of him, I would deserve no better - possibly a good deal worse." She turned to her ladies. "Lady Cersei wishes me to come straight to the point. And so I shall. Please, leave us."

Frostbite turned and left; Peasant looked imploringly at her mistress. Sansa smiled and (surprisingly) winked reassuringly at her before gesturing her firmly away. Peasant gave Cersei one last vicious glare that warned her of dire consequences should Cersei dare harm the object of her infatuation, and withdrew. The Hound stayed last. "Your Grace," he said hesitantly.

"Sandor," she responded, her voice vibrant with affection - and command. She nodded toward the path; he bent his head unwillingly and limped off. Cersei held her breath, incredulous to see that they really were leaving her alone with the girl. She turned to watch the Hound walk to the edge of the clearing, then through the godswood. She should feel jubilant to have such a chance - images crossed her mind of lunging at the girl, clawing at her eyes, laying teeth to her throat - she could kill her before the Hound and his men could retrace their steps in response to the screams. And after - afterwards, what did it matter? 

But unease set in as she watched him go - and she sat there with her head averted from the queen, listening to his receding footsteps. The woods seemed to whisper, whisper...she shook her head impatiently. She must focus. If she were to attack, she HAD to be utterly singleminded. She could not hesitate if she were to have any hope of succeeding. But - should she, even if she could? The septas had told her Tommen and Myrcella were still alive. If they were not dead by now...could it be?..cruel, mindless hope. No, there was none. She turned back to the clearing, and looked about it, not yet willing to meet Sansa's eyes. There was an odd spattering of dark red and white hovering about a foot above the ground on the other side of the clearing, contrasting with the brown-gray color of the tree trunks behind. She squinted, but her vision remained blurred (a side effect of scurvy, Septa Edda had complacently informed her). Focus, focus...she must rage, recriminate this girl for every offense, bring her fury to the highest pitch, till it lent the necessary strength to her limbs...

"My lady Cersei," Sansa said gently. Cersei met her eyes. 

"Sandor..." she mimicked Sansa's affectionate intonation. "Oh, I see how you won his fealty. I see it in his eyes. And that besotted servant girl of yours - you've had her since the Vale, haven't you? One must take loyal lackeys where one finds them, but how low did you have to go to find her? But of course you've gone higher since. I've heard of the wide swathe you've cut. Baelish, of course - he must've been the first one you seduced, to get him to betray us the way he did. Right under our noses in the Red Keep - how well you pulled the wool over our eyes. And how well you repaid Littlefinger before you went on to Hardyng. And all the lords who've taken up your cause? How else could they overlook your treachery and bend their heads so willingly to your yoke? And the idiot smallfolk are fooled by your air of washy innocence and call you the Maiden Queen...!"

Sansa burst out laughing. "Is that how you think I won them over? And the multitudes that follow me, too? I'm flattered you think so much of my - stamina." She smiled shyly, the modest girl blushing at a bawdy jest but determined to keep up with the conversation of sophisticated people. "The lords and the smallfolk follow me because I have made it worth their while, and I have, on the whole, kept my word to them once given." Her smile faded. "Which is not to say that I haven't lied when I needed to. In politics one occasionally must, as you know. But I've decided to speak only the truth in our talk today." She looked at Cersei, her gaze and voice suddenly touched with ice. "I owe you, I think, a good many truths."

Cersei felt her mouth suddenly go dry, as Sansa went on smoothly, in a much lighter tone, "Of course, there's more to my following than just mutual convenience. As for your notion that I won my way to the Iron Throne on my back - well, I remember once you told me that a woman carries between her legs her best weapon against the world. I was listening with rapt attention, I assure you. I've thought on your advice a great deal since. Yet even though your experience was vastly greater than mine, I chose to act differently."

Cersei bit back a furious reply. Stoke your rage like a fire, she told herself, listen to her and let it build higher and hotter...

"...I think that if a woman tempts a man who wants her with the charm of her body - and hints to him that he can have what he sees for a price, he will risk his death to get it. Even decent men might do things they would despise themselves for, if they wanted her enough, and so she wins their fealty - for a time.

"But let a woman tempt men with her love - and let them know that possession of her body is ever unattainable to him and to all men - encourage him to love what he sees as but a fair symbol for all the ideals he still believes - let him see that she returns his love in the form of justice and charity and mercy, which have become as rare as unicorns in these years, and far more yearned for - then they will love her without jealousy or temptation - the men and their wives too, for they feel that such love ennobles them and the good things they still long to believe about themselves. And she has them forever.

"While the poor woman who bribes a man with the knowledge that the body he so longs for is attainable - and worse, lets him attain it - she has lost him. For though he is willing to do anything to get her, once he has actually HAD her, he will discover that what he longed for above life when it was out of his reach is not so very wonderful now that he has possessed it...

"So the rude and thankless churl disparages her, the woman who gave him so much pleasure. He unfairly blames her for his own weakness and despises her for the despicable things he chose to do to get her. And he fiercely regrets his choice, and thinks that he has paid far too high a price for an experience not much different from what he could have had of any poor dockside whore. And how the world relishes abusing a whore - as you learned on your penance walk from the Great Sept..."

Cersei lurched to her feet, ready to lunge - the dove flew upward with a panicky whistle of wings -

The gray fur bolster at Sansa's feet stirred - and growled. It was a wolf - a gray wolf that rose to its feet, and bared pointed teeth at her with a resonant snarl. Cersei froze where she stood. The beast's eyes stared into hers. It bared its teeth again briefly. See these, it seemed to tell her. Remember them.

"Clement," the girl said softly. The wolf dropped to curl up at her feet again, though now it kept alert eyes on Cersei.

"If you approach me he will attack." Sansa told her. "He will not kill you, but he will almost certainly hurt you when he restrains you. I beg of you, don't try. I take no pleasure in seeing another's pain. Not even yours."

Cersei sat again, an instant before she would have fallen from the sudden weakness in her knees. She drew in breath and forced out a short laugh. "That's no direwolf."

Sansa echoed her laugh. "You DO have courage, my lady." She stroked the wolf's fur. "No, no direwolf. I only ever got the one. I miss her still." She looked up at Cersei. "Just an ordinary wolf. One of Petyr's men killed his mother but saved the cub. Petyr was delighted; he had it gelded and given to me. He thought that it would be a fine pet for me, a living symbol of my Stark heritage at my side to rally the troops, tamed and rendered harmless, like others he chose to use." She smiled reminiscently. "He learned better. Briefly."

A despairing weight settled on Cersei. She could nothing to harm her. She had been a fool to ever think she'd had a chance to, and it was only reflex now that she still lashed out. "Trained animals. Mummery. I've heard those lovely tales of you going out to feed the masses with the birds of the field fluttering about you. A few tame sparrows and pigeons and the idiot smallfolk are convinced of your divinity and follow you blindly - especially if you bribe them with a few crumbs of bread. I doubt your mob's obedience can be held for long with so cheap a trick."

The girl nodded, seemingly unoffended. "A trick, indeed. Though only a woman who's never had to watch her children starve would speak so cavalierly of bread. But your children never lacked for anything material..."

"My children never lacked for ANYTHING." Cersei snapped.

"Oh, you loved them, I don't deny it. In fact, I'm banking on it."

That painful throb of hope. "What is this REALLY all about?"

Sansa did not answer for a moment. She looked around the clearing; Cersei followed her gaze and saw that haze of red again. It was a plant, she realized; one with dark-red leaves. She noticed there were crumbs of loose earth and pebbles scattered about the clearing, as if someone had been gardening in the recently thawed ground.

"When my father was King's Hand," Sansa reflected, "Lord Varys recorded nearly every conversation of note in the Red Keep...from meetings between councillors to lovers abed. But one afternoon you and my father spoke here - and none but you know what was said. Though one can guess by what happened soon afterwards."

"He chose the spot. He said he wanted the gods to hear." Cersei murmured mockingly; she still felt somewhat incredulous after all this time.

"He said that?" For the first time Cersei saw what she could be certain was unguarded emotion on the girl's face; startlement, a sudden stricken look. Cersei felt gratified at finally managing to get a blow in that had told.

"He said that? How...very like him." In a blink her face smoothed and she smiled wryly. In a steady voice lightly tinged with irony she said "Thank you, my lady, for telling me."

"There was another reason he chose the place, of course," Sansa continued. "Look at it. Sandor has moved to the end of the path, where he can see us but is too far off to hear. The clearing is too large for anyone approaching to hear you before you can see him. No man who can see us is close enough to overhear." It was true; the wintry lack of leaves made it easy to see far into the untenanted woods, and even Tyrion couldn't have hidden in the scant shadow of the foot-high boulder Sansa leaned her back on. "My father wanted you to speak freely." Please do so now."

"And what shall we speak of? Do you expect me to grovel and plead to spare my life? You'll be disappointed."

"I didn't arrange this meeting to gloat over you or humble you." Sansa said patiently. "I want something of you, you saw that immediately, and I am prepared to recompense you for what I want."

"Recompense?" Cersei spat. "What are you to bribe me with? Will you tell me my life will be spared and I'll be allowed a peaceful retirement at Casterly Rock? Do you think me such a fool that I'd believe a promise like that?"

"I would never insult you with such an assumption, my lady. You know as well as I do that you are dead, no matter what happens between us today. The only question that needs to be resolved is who you will take with you when you go."

Tommen. Myrcella. "Well, then?" she whispered.

"I want your confession. Your free confession before the assembled lords at court that your children were not the legitimate children of Robert Baratheon." Cersei stared at her mutely. "The door must be shut firmly and forever on any claim of theirs or their descendants to the throne. While I trust them not to rebel, they may be used as figureheads by others in their revolts. The kingdom will take generations to heal. It MUST have lasting peace. In exchange for that confession, you have my word that your children's lives will be spared and they will live them out in a fashion that befits their rank."

A painful, futile hope was born in her breast; she strove to crush it. "My children. You wouldn't spare them any more than you would me."

"And if I made the promise and gave my word before the court before you spoke a single word of your confession?" Sansa leaned forward eagerly. "I'm willing to compromise to allay your fears."

"You think that I will sit here and treat with the murderer of my son?" Cersei grated. "After what you did to him, you think I would believe in anything you say?" Rage roiled painfully in her breast, now that she had no use for it.

"'Twas the Tyrrels - specifically Olenna and Margaery, with the help of Baelish. They'd heard of Joffrey's - more disagreeable side, and wanted a husband more amiable and kind for Margaery. They contrived to poison him that night, and put the blame on Tyrion and me. If it's any comfort to you, my lady, with the Tyrells and Baelish dead, you may consider yourself avenged."

"Oh, yes, I heard that story long before you came to King's Landing...how you shoved your dirty linen into Baelish's coffin, and blamed him and the Tyrrels for Joffrey. The Tyrrells I might have believed - but Littlefinger? What cause had he to harm us who had rewarded him so well?"

"That's what he always counted on - that no one would understand his motive. He even tried to fool me that he acted without one. But there was, for Joffrey's death. You, my lady, had refused to give him my hand in marriage because he was too lowborn...and however goodnatured Littlefinger seemed, that was the kind of insult he could never abide. And so, - Joffrey."

"I don't believe you." Cersei said sullenly.

"What reason would I have to lie to you here, now?" Sansa rejoined. "There would be no shame now for me to announce to the world that I had killed Joffrey - on the contrary, I would be praised for having rid the nation of a tyrant - a monster to rival Aerys the Mad."

"Don't you dare speak of him that way..." The rage was rising in her again...

"Very well. He doesn't concern me - your living children do."

Cersei's head ached as she tried to think. "You sit the Iron Throne on sufferance. You have no power to keep any promise you make - even if I believed you mean them. The only thing that comforts me is that your reign will be even briefer than mine. The Targaryen bitch will come and cleanse you from your stolen throne with dragonfire."

Sansa sighed. "You yourself saw the dragons join my army in beating back the undead hordes from the walls of King's Landing before we took the city and the throne. You knew even then that Danaerys Targaryen's nephew and consort was raised as my own brother. Surely you realized that we are allies."

"Alliances of convenience are one thing." Cersei said doggedly. "I had one, with the Tyrrells. It means nothing. You call yourself Queen. You hold the Iron Throne. She claims it. She will kill you for it." 

"She could. Easily." Sansa said thoughtfully. "But there will be no need. I act as the Dragon Queen's obedient servant. I acknowledge my allegiance in every proclamation. Her banner flies above mine. When she comes to King's Landing after finishing the last battle in the North, she knows I will bend the knee before her, kiss the hem of her gown, and relinquish the throne to her, without bloodshed."

"You couldn't," said Cersei. "The lords who've followed you and paid with their men's blood for your conquest will want their rewards from your hands for their fealty. They've taken power away from the Iron Throne for themselves - your own brother is the King in the North now. They won't stand for you just handing back their gains to a Targaryen woman who owes them nothing."

"A fair objection." Sansa nodded. "There have been negotiations to that effect. It's been agreed that the King in the North will keep his crown, and there will be other coronations among the Lords Paramount. A new covenant of rule is being defined in which the kingdoms will be allowed greater independence from the central control of King's Landing, as well as new rights and a Speaker for the Commons in the Council of the ruler - only a little power for the smallfolk, far less than they deserve, but a beginning at least. Her Grace was most amenable. She will call herself Imperatrix, I believe; the maester's translation of an archaic Valyrian term."

"That's absurd," Cersei replied, caught up in unwilling interest in the outlandish theoretical construct. "None of the lords of the land, after having gained kingships for themselves, would then bend to swear fealty to a ridiculous made-up title."

"Perhaps." Sansa allowed thoughtfully; then she looked up with a sudden crooked smile. "But I'd guess a woman with three grown dragons at her command can call herself whatever she bloody well wants to, don't you think?"

Cersei surprised herself with a brief laugh. Sansa smiled hopefully. "Well, my lady? Do we begin to understand each other?"

"Again, what power do you have to keep your promise?" Cersei rejoined sharply. "You say you will quit the Iron Throne. Why would the Dragon agree to honor any vow you make once she takes it herself?"

"I will leave the Iron Throne. But I won't go far. The realm can be taken by dragons - but it can't be held for long by those means alone - Her Grace learned that in her conquests across the sea. I have won the trust of many, and she's agreed to allow me to broker peace agreements till her return - and stay in her court to aid her afterwards. Your brother Tyrion, her Hand, is here in court and can confirm the deal before you and the assembled lords before you speak a word."

Cersei took a shaky breath. "Let's pretend for one moment that you're not lying. Why should you want to save them? What do you gain?"

Sansa smiled sadly. "Could it not be that I simply like Tommen and Myrcella - that I always did, even when I was Joffrey's whipping-girl and lived in terror of my life at every moment? They were always kind to me as far as they could be. They didn't have the power to make things better for me, but they could have made them worse, and they did not." 

She looked intently at Cersei. "Or could it be that I would not like to establish another reign on the blood of innocent children who had no guilt in the quarrels of their elders? No, I see that won't do for you. You're looking for the trick. Well, here's a reason you may accept. The Westerlands are too tightly bound with Lannister blood to easily loose them. Every village in that land has a cadet branch of your family in the nobility and scores of bastard descendants among the commmoners. They have been beaten and thoroughly humiliated in battle and by winter, but it would take a wholesale massacre of the region to root them out. Not that the Dragon is incapable of a massacre, but the land is weary of blood and she does not wish to smirch her reputation as untarnished savior of Westeros. The Lannister Westerlands need to be reconciled, without the killing of innocents to incite a new cycle of revenge - AND without any further royal ambitions."

"And how do you think you can quash Lannister ambitions WITHOUT killing Tommen and Myrcella?" Cersei rasped.

"Tommen takes septon's vows."

"What?" Cersei snapped incredulously. "My son forced into the life of a canting, glorified eunuch?"

"I assure you, there will be no force about it. Seeing Margaery die the way she did wounded him deeply. He loved her - "

"A child's fondness for his nursey." 

"Be that as it may, he was deeply wounded by it. You must remember yourself how he was in the days afterwards..."

Tommen speechless and limp in her arms, mutely unresponsive to her attempts to console him...

"The High Septon - who is a genuinely good man, if somewhat rigid - took him into the care of the seminary for his own safety during the last fall of King's Landing." Sansa went on. "He has been tended kindly and has declared his intention of taking vows."

"And give up the life of a man before he has the least idea of what that means."

"Many a septon lives the life of a man, and even has sons. They may call them nephews, but they never acknowledge them...which would leave them safely out of contention for the throne. But I suspect Tommen's vocation may be more sincere than that. You shall judge of that when you speak to him."

Cersei's heart jumped painfully. "And Myrcella?"

"She was married to Trystane and she was fortunate in that he will not set her aside. Many in Dorne agitated for that. After they heard about the undeath of the Mountain and the perfidy of the Lannisters was fully revealed, they realized Oberyn had died for nothing. But Trystane genuinely likes Myrcella, and she likes him, and his family forbore to dissolve the betrothal. And this you may confirm with Myrcella herself. You may speak to both your children at length, and convince yourself that what I've told you of them is true. "

"Is my confession the price I must pay for that promise?" Cersei asked tensely.

"No price for that promise, my lady. I make you a present of it." Sansa gave her an oddly grim smile.

"You'd have coerced them to speak against their will."

"Couldn't a mother's eye like yours tell the difference between a lie coerced by threats and the sincere truth?" Sansa replied impatiently.

"And if I confess. What then?"

"Your confession will delegitimize your children, which will not do for the wife of Trystane Martell. I will restore them the name of Lannister by royal decree. Tyrion will give up his claim to Casterley Rock..."

"He would never," Cersei snapped. 

"You will HEAR him do it before the assembled lords. Her Grace has pardoned him his crime of patricide, but he has come to realize his countrymen will never accept a kinslayer as their lord. He will renounce his claim. Tommen's vows will prevent him from taking it up. And so it will fall to Myrcella and Trystane to rule the Rock. The Westerlands AND Dorne will be placated."

"And they all will live happily ever after, and I'll go to the chopping block with gladness in my heart." Cersei said bitterly. "It's a lovely story, but I stopped believing in the singers' tales long ago. No."

Sansa raised her eyebrows. "No?"

"No confession. Nothing. Let your lackey Jaime confess what he will."

Sansa studied her through narrowed eyes. "I'm afraid that's not negotiable. You are their mother - YOU must confess. Only YOU can state with certainty before the law that Robert was not their father. Her Grace has agreed to take the risk of leaving them alive - but ONLY if there is no doubt that they have no claim to the Baratheon name or the throne. Without your confession your children will die."

"They are dead. No matter what you promise, nothing will save them. Let them die with dignity as Baratheons, as royal blood, and let future Lannisters make martyrs of them and war on future Starks and Targaryens."

Sansa frowned. "I'd thought that I could count at least on your love for your children. Is that a falsehood, too?"

Cersei felt the rage rise up in her again, in her heart, in her throat, bitter as gall on her tongue. How dare she, how dare...

"Is it that you can only love what is like to you?" Sansa went coldly on. "Is that the reason for your love of Ser Jaime - because he was always your mirror image, the closest you could get to making love to yourself? Perhaps that's the reason you mourn Joffrey so - because he was the most like you? And so you love Tommen and Myrcella less, because their gentleness is alien to your nature? Is it that you secretly despise them for it, that you're so willing to sacrifice them on the altar of your pride?"

Heedless of everything, Cersei flung herself at Sansa, arms outstretched; there was a growl and shock and pain as she was struck and knocked to the ground, and the wolf's hot breath was in her face as it stood upon her breast. She had gone on many a dull hunt with her father and later with Robert, and knew very well how a dog looked when it took some prey; the furious excitement that raised its fur and hackles, the way it lunged and bit deeply into the throat and viciously jerked it about to rend the large veins and bring death the faster. 

This was not like that. The wolf's face was right beside hers as it clamped her in its jaws - not her throat, but the muscular fold between her neck and shoulder. It held her in a careful grip - hard enough to dig the points of its teeth into her skin without tearing through it. It softly shook its head a little from side to side in a gentle-seeming no-no-no gesture that pulled her flesh about agonizingly. But what unnerved her even more than the pain was the look in those pale amber eyes. They stared calmly into hers, menacing but without anger, with a cool calculating intelligence that belonged on the face of no beast.

"Be still, my lady," The girl's gently commanding tone struck through her terror. "Be still, and he will let you go."  
Cersei obeyed. The wolf stopped shaking her. With a final slight squeeze of its jaws it released her, and backed away toward its mistress, its gaze still bent in warning on Cersei's own. 

Cersei crept back to her seat, and sat shivering in the sunlight. She would not cry, would not. The woods were whispering again. I am going mad, she thought. 

Sansa watched Cersei for awhile, then picked up the wineskin and tossed it to her. It landed neatly at her right hand, and Cersei took it up eagerly. Not bothering with the cup, she drank straight from the neck. She drank as avidly as a baby suckling at its mother's breast, her eyes stinging tears of gratitude as she gulped great sweet drafts of that lovely heat that soothed her painfully hammering heart and softly unlocked her muscles fom the tension of terror; nor did she stop till the wineskin was down to the dregs.

She lowered her arm, feeling lightheaded, and looked up to meet Sansa's eyes, expecting contempt. The girl sat watching her. She displayed no mockery, no more impatience; she sat very still, her hands folded, gaze bent thoughtfully on Cersei, in utterly complete attention. Cersei looked back at her, half-dazed, her breath slowing to a normal pace. It was as if the girl were respectfully waiting Cersei's pleasure to speak, knowing that not all had been said. 

"I love my children. I would crawl on that road from the Red Keep back to Baelor's Sept with a headsman's axe at the end of it with pleasure if I thought it would save them. It won't. Nothing will." She tried for a last pull at the wineskin, but got only a few drops, gritty with beeswing, then looked defiantly back at Sansa.

"You can have your confession now. Yes, my children were Jaime's. And no, I don't repent of that, even for all the ill that came of it." The words flowed heedlessly. She felt a sense of deja vu - once before, she had been so drunk and spoken so easily before those eyes - the flattering look of absorbed interest, understanding and sympathetic. Then as now, that look seemed to draw out of her things she would never have dreamed of saying to others, things that she had never been conscious of wanting to say - but now the words escaped her with a feeling of relief and release that they had finally found the perfect listener at last.

"No man and no woman ever felt as we did, and if I were given the chance to undo it and live my life over, I would choose to live every moment of that joy again, I swear it before the gods, if they ARE listening here. We were gods ourselves in those moments, and when I bore those children, and held them in my arms. And if you ARE a maiden as you say, and must stay one lest you lose your power over your followers' minds, then I could almost pity you if I didn't hate you so. For you will never know even the palest shadow of what I knew. And even with your throne and crown and power, I would never trade...I would never..." 

Confused, she stopped. When Robert had crowned her, when she sat the throne and received obeisance - how HAD it compared to those moments when she had lain spent in Jaime's arms, when she had pressed her lips to her babies' foreheads? Had all the glory she had striven for really meant so little? Looking back now, she no longer knew anything for certain. 

"You are too generous, my lady." Sansa spoke gently. "You've confessed far more than is necessary - or desirable. Confess adultery - but confess some other man than Jaime. I want your children removed from the royal succession, but I have no wish to have them further shamed by being officially acknowledged as the children of incest and in danger of being put to death as abominations."

"Such kindliness," Cersei hissed. "Even if I believed it, I wouldn't repeat my confession before anyone but you and your gods. Never - never before Tommen and Myrcella. I've no doubt they've heard all the rumors. But to hear it from my lips? That would be TRUTH. They would HAVE to believe it. They will die, I can't prevent that, no matter what you promise. I won't help you dishonor them before their death for your convenience...nor will I look in their eyes and see them take on that shame as I tell them." She furiously dashed the tears from her cheeks.

Sansa bit her lip, looked at her folded hands. "It's about the prophecy, isn't it? That's why you refuse to believe in any hope of your children's survival? Because of the prophecy." She correctly interpreted Cersei's mute shock. "The prophecy of the Maegi, that you heard as a girl, yes I DO know about it. The old woman herself did not cease to exist the night you flung a pot of pickling solution in her face and fled the tent. A true prophecy of such importance is rare. What she saw that night was a secret of value to others beside you, and in her lifetime she sold it more than once." Her gaze transfixed Cersei. "'Gold their crowns and gold their shrouds', wasn't it? They both wore crowns, Tommen and Myrcella, didn't they, at one time or another?" She leaned forward. "And their shrouds, they can be gold when they die. But does the prophecy mean they MUST die before you? Does it?"

Cersei stared dumbly back at her. "LISTEN to me, Lady Cersei," Sansa implored. "I've spoken to those who know of prophecies. They cannot be avoided, but they may be - placated. If the conditions are fulfilled..."

"There was more to that prophecy," Cersei whispered. "'Queen you shall be..."

"... until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.'" Sansa chimed in.

"It IS you. It was you all along." Cersei said faintly.

"I devoutly hope so." Sansa answered, her jaw set. She got to her feet and called out softly to the empty clearing. "Ser Jaime."

And the bare sunlit ground suddenly wrinkled and sagged in one spot - in the shadow of the boulder, where Cersei's dim eyes had not seen that the ground gave way to cunning painted cloth that exactly matched the color of the soil around it, with tiny flicks of green that mimicked the new grass blades to perfection. The cloth was pushed aside from below, to reveal a narrow dark trench dug beneath, just deep and wide enough for three people to sit uncomfortably side by side in concealment, and listen to the conversation above. Jaime, lean and ashen, now helping Tommen and Myrcella scramble out. Cersei met her children's gaze. They had, of course, heard everything.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a nightmare, surely, and she was dreaming of ghosts – peculiar ghosts who had never looked this way in life…Tommen most phantomlike,the little boy stretched painfully to man’s height, and drawn out far too thin in the process, slender and starved, in a novice’s dark cassock…Myrcella as tall as Cersei herself, her lovely golden hair drawn down in a soft wave that drooped over one cheek but did not quite hide the hideous scar that puckered the skin and drew one eyelid down in a malevolent-looking glare.

And Jaime, her Jaime, the worst of all…his hollow-cheeked face seamed with lines, his hair gone as grey as her own and thinning. His body, once as familiar to her as her own, had always retained the muscular beauty of his early manhood, even the last time she’d seen him, when she had begun feeling disgusted at the signs of age and change (the stump of his arm, the greying beard). But now, now…his broad shoulders and deep chest had shrunken, had shriveled, he was thin and stringy…still with a wiry strength in his stance, but an old leathery stranger. She had seen this happen to all men during the winter, as their bodies contracted to the minimum that could feed and endure – but to see it happen to Jaime’s body that she had so loved was horror like seeing her own hand stained and stiffened with grayscale. 

And he came forward now, walking ahead of Tommen and Myrcella, stretching his arms out to her, a leathery stranger, the Stranger himself…

She flew at him. He clasped her in his arms and held her fast, even when she sank her teeth into his forearm, and thrashed against him with her whole body. She heard a whining snarl that went on and on until she realized it came from her own throat as she smothered on his flesh. At last she had to breathe and let go, Traitor, she wanted to say, but it wasn’t enough, no word was enough, and she let out a hoarse inarticulate shriek.

“Mother, please.” Myrcella’s voice, thin with tension.

"Mother…mother..." – Tommen’s voice, his tremulous intonation, now in an uncertain tenor. She felt rough wool brush against her cheek and she realized that he was trying to wipe the blood from her face with his sleeve.

She reached forward blindly and pulled Tommen to her, Jaime’s arms now gently supporting her instead of restraining her. She reached out an arm to Myrcella, who looked about to shy away before she let Cersei touch her face, that scarred face.

"What has she done to you?"  
"The queen? She’s done nothing…nothing but help us. This…this..." She gestured at the scar... "You know more or less what happened. It had nothing to do with her."

“No, it had to do with the damned Martells and their scheming…and now they’re scheming with her, after their false Dragon failed them…”

“Stop it.” Myrcella hissed, pulling away. “Your grandchild will be a damned Martell…if we live long enough for it to be born at all. And the only thing standing between us and the headsman’s block now is her.”

“You believe her?”  
“I’ve learned to be less gullible over time. I’ve come a long way. To think that I used to believe in you…”

“You heard…just now…”

“I heard it long ago…the first whispers even before Joff was crowned. I didn’t understand anything then. But over the years, there were ever more whispers, and I understood more, like it or not. I liked it even less when I realized the things I heard fit in with the things I’d seen every now and then, since I was old enough to remember…” Myrcella’s eyes matched now as they narrowed. Cersei felt again the shame of her Walk through King’s Landing, doubled and redoubled. Being laid bare before the leering mockery of the mob was nothing beside the reproach of her daughter’s gaze now. It flayed her. How many times did we give ourselves away, Jaime and I?

“I didn’t believe then. I didn’t want to. Not even when you started slipping from power and the whispers started turning to plain speaking – to my face."

Cersei clenched her fists. ”The Martells…”

“The Martells run a court like any other court. Awash in venom and backstabbing. And all those enemies took care to tell me the scandal.” She bit her lip. “I accepted it…I knew…but I didn’t believe it, in the heart of me. Not for years. Not till I heard you say it, just now.”

Denials sprang to Cersei’s lips, but they died unspoken as she took in Myrcella’s hard gaze, the half-pitying revulsion in Tommen’s eyes.

"Trystane loves me, but the Prince’s kindness will only stretch so far. He would spare me only if it won’t risk his family…and there’s too many factions to keep me and the baby alive if we don’t reconcile with the Dragon. No one in the realm would stand up for me against Danaerys Targaryen if I keep the Baratheon name and claim. My marriage would be set aside, and even if they sent me to the Silent Sisters there would be some enemy of yours who’d make sure that a draught of pennyroyal would find its way into my food…and if it killed me as well as the baby, so much the better." She looked at Cersei, tears welling."Please,mother...for me and the baby - for Tommen..."

Cersei forced a whisper. "You depend on their word of honor? On hers?" 

“It's more than just her word. She’s saved us. She took me under her protection when the mob attacked Kettleblack and that squad of men you sent to drag me back to the city…”

"To rescue you – "

"SHE rescued me. Kettleblack’s white armor was a death warrant in that crowd by then. She rode into the fray with her guard when they’d pulled Kettleblack to pieces and dragged me out of the litter. She threw her cloak over me and the mob stepped back. I trust her." She glared at Cersei. "Besides, we have no choice. You’ve burned every bridge for us in Westeros. In the world."

“It’s true.” Tommen said in a stifled voice. ”Blount himself delivered me up to her forces when they broke into the Red Keep...I guess he was hoping for mercy. She ordered the High Septon to hide me when her own men were calling for my head. The Sparrow admitted me to the seminary disguised, under a false name. I heard the other boys talk about us and our family - from sons of smallfolk up to sons of lords. By the end of the war there wasn't one who didn't think Westeros would be better off with us dead."

“Lord Jaime…” the Queen’s voice spoke sharply.

“Wait…not yet…” Jaime muttered.

“Now.” Sansa snapped. She strode forward.  
“My lady Cersei.”

“Is it enough, now?” Cersei glared up at her. Her fury had burned itself out, leaving only desolation. “It wasn’t enough that you’ve condemned me to death before the rabble. It wasn’t enough to have me at your mercy, to spill my blood on the cobblestones. You had to shame me before my children first. Is that enough? Will there be worse?” No, too much.

"If you truly understood what I’m trying to do, you’d be on your knees in gratitude," Sansa answered sharply. "Think. Think of the prophecy. 'Queen you shall be . . . until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.' You were queen. And now I am. Look at your children. See how they shrink from you. Can't it be said that I have taken them from you?" Sansa's eyes transfixed her.  
"'Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds, and when your tears have drowned you...' then you die. Does that mean your children must die before you?"

Cersei stared at her uncomprehendingly. Sansa pressed her lips together. "The prophecy ends with your death. When you die, it is fulfilled. If your children survive you, they are free of the prophecy. Free to live out their lives at the whims of chance, like other mortals. That is what you should be longing for with all your heart." Sansa moved closer, her gaze locked on Cersei's." Her meaning began to dawn on Cersei, and Sansa's next words seemed to echo her own thoughts. "True prophecies are always fulfilled...but the manner of their fulfillment may not be as expected. You've wept a great deal today. Wouldn't you say your tears have drowned you? Your children were crowned, both of them, in the power dance these past few years. I have had their shrouds made, of the finest cloth of gold. Thus must be the tricks we play when we try - oh, so humbly - to satisfy the fates. Your children may wear those shrouds when they're eighty, with my best wishes. Or they could wear them within a moon. It depends on you." 

Sansa stepped closer, her eyes and voice clear and cold. "The Dragon has given me the authority to represent her and broker a peace. I am empowered to show mercy to Tommen and Myrcella - but ONLY if such mercy will not endanger that peace." Sansa's stern look softened, her tone became almost beseeching. "Deny their Baratheon paternity before the court, and destroy their claim to the throne, and I will legitimize them by royal decree, and I will vow to protect their lives with my own before the Dragon. I will then carry out the sentence against you for your crimes, and you will go to your death knowing that the prophecy has been fulfilled - and that your children survived it."

She sighed. "But if you refuse, my lady, I will have failed in my peacemaking. And so I will leave you alive, and you and your children will face the judgement of the dragon, instead of mine." Sansa's voice dropped to a pitying whisper. "And let a fairer queen than me fulfil the prophecy in a far more literal fashion than I would."

Sansa turned away and walked off a few paces. Cersei took a deep, tremulous breath. Hope after despair was fear, a shuddering weakness. She leaned back against Jaime and shivered. Tommen patted her arm awkwardly, and even Myrcella came closer. She reached out blindly and drew them against her, glad to hold them on any terms.  
"Please, mother." Myrcella whispered. "For us."  
"For Myrcella and the baby." Tommen echoed.  
Jaime said nothing. Only held her, and waited.

Sansa strode up. "Well, my lady?"

"Yes. Yes. Damn you, yes."


	4. Chapter 4

  Everything went quickly after that. They swept her along behind the queen and her entourage. She walked at Jaime's side as he held her firmly by the arm; she kept her gaze from him to avoid rekindling her rage, though she depended on the support of his strength to keep up the fast pace the others set. Myrcella and Tommen flanked her on either side; she gave them each sidelong quick glances, hungry to look at them but reluctant to meet their eyes when they looked back. Tommen would give her a forced, painful smile; Myrcella returned her gaze expressionlessly, only her eyes betraying miserable anger held in check. The queen's voice rang out among the little crowd of servants and guards ahead; she was calling for a gathering of all the Lords Paramount and their bannermen who were in King's Landing within two hours. It seemed that the court had been expecting this summons.  
  
  Cersei was borne along up the stairs to the Council Room, and was breathless when she reached the top.  Ever the perfect hostess, the queen turned to her and apologized (with no visible trace of sarcasm) for the chill in the room. There was only a meager fire in the hearth.  They could not waste the wood in heating a separate tiring-room, for all of King's Landing was under strict rationing, and it would ill become the palace to be prodigal of heat when so many smallfolk had to do without almost entirely. Having delivered herself of this breathtaking platitude with a straight face, she instructed that Cersei be seated on a bench before the fire while (apparently unmindful of the cold) she took her seat at the head of the Council table, and gave instructions to her servants.  Frostbite left, and almost immediately returned with a flock of pages, who carried in a small table and swiftly laid it before Cersei with a meal of chicken in its broth and corn cakes. Frostbite told her that the queen wished her to eat before her court appearance to keep her strength up; she leaned forward and added in a discreet whisper that she was authorized to give her another cup of wine if she ate. Cersei felt a twinge of distant resentment at this, but Tommen softly urged her and she complied.  
  
  It was a pauper's meal, compared to what the Red Keep's table had been like before the winter, but the lean fowl was a luxury she'd not had often the past year, even before she'd fallen prisoner. As she choked down the food, she tried to speak to Tommen and Myrcella. She longed to embrace them, to weep afresh over the mere fact that they were with her. But their tension, their guarded expressions and halting speech reminded her of the confession she had unknowingly made before them, their shame of it and her. She did not dare allude to it, much less upbraid them for their silence, lest she drive them away altogether. So the little talk she managed was stilted questions that they answered briefly. Was Tommen truly content at the seminary? Yes, mother, truly. Was Myrcella feeling well? Yes, quite. She was aware of Jaime standing silently behind her, of the queen relaxing in her chair as Peasant brushed and dressed her hair.  A page swept away the plates before Cersei, and (to her annoyance) replaced them with a saucer of dried-plum pudding.  
  
  Jaime, who had till then paced quietly behind her, came round the bench and exchanged a meaningful glance with Myrcella & Tommen. They quickly got to their feet and moved off  to the other end of the chamber. "I have little enough time with them left as it is." Cersei flared at him. "Why are you keeping them from me?"

  "Believe me, they wanted to go." Jaime answered. "They don't want to hear us discuss who we're going to tell the court their father is." Cersei stared at him. "I was thinking about cousin Tyrmand," he added in a conversational tone.

 "What are you talking about?"

 "You've agreed to confess adultery before the court... but not adultery with me. The Martelles don't want Trystane married to an acknowledged child of incest. You must name someone else as the father of your children. I thought of Cousin Tyrmand."

  "Tyrmand." For a moment she drew a blank, before memory kicked up a middling handsome face (but for buckteeth) under a mop of strawberry blond  hair.

   "I checked the Spider's old records, the guest lists from years ago. He was here at King's Landing at the right time for Joffrey, Myrcella & Tommen. He'll do as well as any other."

  "I remember...he came angling for a court appointment, bowing and scraping, enrolling in every tourney list, then making up to me when Robert was unimpressed."

 "And when Robert took up too obviously with your own chambermaid, you started flirting with Tyrmand at every ball.''

 "I don't remember that."

 "I remember it clearly." Jaime answered drily. "You danced with him out of turn, always letting his hands linger on you just a moment longer than they should have. You made coquettish remarks at the supper table that sometimes went right to the edge of impropriety without ever going over....you did it wonderfully well. The flirtation never left the drawing room, there was never the least rumor that you had actually done anything wrong, but you made it just obvious enough for even that blockhead Robert to eventually notice, and stew about it.

 "He finally took care of Tyrmand in a tournament melee, the last time he participated - struck him a blow with the blunt side of his hammer, hard enough to dint his helm and leave him laid out for a month. He recovered, but was never quite the same with a sword after. Had a palsied, shaky grip. He never got on the tourney lists again. Died in a tavern brawl against a rank amateur."

  "And I suppose you blame me for that, too." Cersei snapped.

 "No." Jaime answered quietly. "I've come to think a man's responsible for what he decides to do for a woman - no matter what she is to him."

  Cersei didn't quite know how to take that, and turned away from him, noting absently that a slim young girl gowned in gray velvet had somehow slipped in unnoticed and was whispering in the queen's ear. Another servant perhaps, though the dress she wore seemed too rich to belong to a lady-in-waiting. "Fine. Let them be the children of Cousin Tyrmand. Or Jalabar Xho. What does it matter? No one will believe it anyway."

  Jaime shrugged. "The Tyrells knew the truth from the start, yet they consented to marry Margaery to Joffrey anyway...and then to Tommen. All that's really needed is to create a doubt. People did gossip about Tyrmand a bit at the time. They'll remember it if you name him the father. And as time passes & those that knew us and remember how singular we were die off, the official story will prevail and what happened between us will fade to a scurrilous rumor. And the gods willing, Myrcella's grandchildren will live in dull respectability with nothing but a quaint old scandal in their pedigree, long after you and I are dust. After all, ours is a story so monstrous and unlikely that in the long run, more will believe our plausible lie than the actual truth." He sighed. "There are times when I scarce believe it myself."

  "Nor I," replied Cersei, stung.  
  
  Jaime gave her a concilliatory glance, put a hand on her shoulder. "I didn't mean..."  
  
He broke off, his hand tightening suddenly on her shoulder. Turning to see what had startled him she met the eyes of the girl in grey velvet, who had somehow moved within arm's reach without either of them noticing. The girl had been unobtrusive and forgettable when Censei had first seen her. She wasn't now. Huge gray eyes blazed out of a thin, angular, beautiful face... but looking at her now, Cersei scarcely noticed the beauty... those eyes were cold, cold and hard as glaciers gleaming in moonlight.  
  
"You _will_ do as you promised, won't you, my lady?"  
  
 Jaime pressed Cersei close. "She will, Lady Arya. She's given her word."  
   
 Of course - they were Ned's eyes... but never had  Eddard Stark's look radiated the menace that this girl's gaze did.  
  
 "If she doesn't," the girl said in a soft, agreeable undertone, "I will fulfil the prophecy against your children myself... and I won't be quick. I swear it."  
  
 Cersei opened her mouth to answer, but found her mouth had gone dry.  
  
 "No threats." Jaime warned, his hand going to his sword hilt.  
  
  The girl turned a pleasant smile on Jaime, her pale eyes prettily shaded with thick dark lashes in an almost flirtatious glance. "Not a threat. A promise. You know what I am capable of, my lord Jaime. You've seen it. You can tell it to her at your leisure."  
  
"She will keep her promise."  Cersei might have resented him speaking on her behalf, if she hadn't heard the faint quiver in his voice, felt the hardening of his muscles as he sat beside Cersei, as if he were tensed to spring to her defense. He took the girl's threat seriously, and he was no coward, whatever else he'd proven to be.  
  
"Now Arya, there's no need for that," the queen reproved. She smiled reassuringly at Cersei. "My sister now holds the seat of Mistress of Whispers on my Council. She's zealous in her duties, but you need not fear. She will respect utterly the agreements we make."  
  
  Smiling, Lady Arya turned back to the council table to sit by the queen's side. Myrcella and Tommen bowed their heads to the girl as she brushed by them; there was a cringe in their courtesy. Cersei took a deep breath, realized her heart was hammering. She pushed away her bowl. "Give me the wine," she hissed at Frostbite. Jaime nodded at her and she brought the cup.  
  
  It was the vile Rhoynish vintage, and watered down besides; she drank it swiftly. Despite the food and the weakness of the wine, its effect surprised her. A year or two ago she could have finished all she had drunk today within an hour, and hardly felt it. She was no longer used to it, and a bone-deep weariness (as much of the soul as the body) made her vulnerable to it. Feeling slightly unsteady, she leaned against Jaime; her surroundings seemed to take on a distant, dreamlike air. They reminded her of something - what was it? And why should she be remembering summer in Casterley Rock? The warmth of the wine, of the fireplace? The watery sunshine of the tower window?  
  
  The summer after their mother's death had been exceptionally long and hot, and the memory forever after had a feverish glow about it, as if nothing were quite real. Their mother's death - and what had happened just before it - had wrenched and torn their lives into a new shape. If she hadn't discovered us together, or if she hadn't died, thought Cersei, everything would have turned out differently.  
  
  Joanna's face when she saw them - shocked, revolted - it changed them both. They had been vaguely aware that they had been doing something wrong, that might be scolded, but that look had stunned them. They'd never felt that shame before, nor that fear. Joanna had paled as if she were going to faint, before she sprang forward and pulled them apart, fingers yanking at their hair and scratching their skin - she who'd never laid an ungentle hand on them before. She'd grabbed their clothes and thrown them in their faces, hissing at them to cover themselves. She'd called them vile, disgusting. She'd told them the gods condemned what they'd done as one of the worst of crimes. And what was even worse than Joanna's imprecations was her whisper, the fearful glances over her shoulder to see if some servant had spied them or overheard. Mother was afraid. She told them that if Father ever found out, he would be angry, so angry...he would teach them a sharp lesson. They MUST stop this, must swear to never do it again, or she would tell Father herself. They had heard of the sharp lessons Father had taught others. They promised, they swore by their lives, by the Seven, they would have sworn anything to make that shame and fear stop.  
  
  Cersei still remembered the pain in her arm as Mother dragged her away, fingers digging hurtfully into her forearm. She remembered that Mother took her into her own bedroom and locked the door behind them, and had demanded to know if she was still a maiden, then clarified what that meant through gritted teeth when Cersei was unsure of the details, then had wrung her hands and finally ordered Cersei to lie back on the bed while she checked for herself. (Cersei's mind shied away from evoking that moment, even now.) Afterwards Mother sat up in the armchair while Cersei curled up beneath the quilts, peeping cautiously out. She saw Mother gnawing her lower lip as she ran a hand uneasily over the curve of her belly, before she groaned and knelt to puke in the chamber pot by the bed, and to weep.  
  
The next day she seemed perfectly well. She sent out invitations for the feast scheduled for six weeks hence, when Father was coming back from King's Landing to be present for the birth of his third child. She directed the arrangements for the food and the entertainment. And, apparently as an afterthought, she had scolded Jaime at luncheon for neglecting his studies with the maester in favor the sparring yard (he had been), and told him that his bedchamber would be moved across to the west side of the Rock, to a small room above the Maester's in his tower, where he must study for an hour after he rose and two before bed - and if he were not punctual, Lord Tywin would hear of it. The court toadies praised Mother's strong hand. At dinner, while chatting with Aunt Genna (who had arrived that day) she had let it drop in passing that she was assigning chaperones to Cersei, for she was near to flowering, some older men had been somewhat too free with their hands at a dance some weeks ago (they had been) and the reputation of Tywin Lannister's daughter must be absolutely above suspicion. Genna had nodded sagely; it was believable, everyone believed it (hadn't they?) Cersei and Jaime exchanged an uneasy glance, and made no protest.  
  
  Mother wrote letters to her especial friend the Princess of Dorne, received the ladies of the court and chatted with Aunt Genna, and everything was fine - except that there was always a designated maidservant following Cersei about or taking an alert shift at her bedroom door throughout the night, and she and Jaime were apart until the night that Mother went into labor prematurely and they had met at her door to listen. When Mother groaned in pain Cersei had grabbed for Jaime's hand. He had squeezed it tightly, as they watched women bustle in and out the door. They had been reassured at first by the women's matter-of-fact air, but the night wore on, and the women began looking more uneasy as they ran in and out. They caught a glimpse of the maester looking distinctly frantic as the door opened again, and heard Mother scream. Jaime dropped her hand and ran off. The chaperone hustled Cersei back to her room. They next saw Mother laid out on her bier. And even though Cersei knew Tyrion was to blame, that squalling, twisted little wretch that had killed her, Mother's face the night she had found them together haunted her the rest of that beautiful, nightmare summer.  
  
What they had done together that had so shocked Mother had been truly innocent in comparison to the way they had felt that long summer - that summer that they behaved so perfectly, so blamelessly. Under Genna's direction, the chaperones had dwindled to an ordinary daytime attendant, and the nighttime guard was replaced by slumber parties with friends of her own age of the lesser nobility, who happily followed her lead in whatever she pleased - but never that summer did she use her power over them to distract them away so she could be alone with Jaime. She did not dare. That night that Mother had found them together, they had still been children. They were yet young enough, alike enough, that they could still exchange clothes for a day and be mistaken for one another; and their play together had been far more due to curiosity than to the faintest quiver of desire they had begun to feel when they touched.  
  
But afterwards - that summer after Mother's death - she had flowered, and they had both had their growth spurts, and they would never be mistaken for one another again. She was becoming a woman outside and in, as Jaime rapidly was becoming a man, and though she could (and did) giggle and sigh with her friends over handsome knights, and she genuinely did yearn for Prince Rhaegar, there was a sweet, torturous agony that she felt sure none of her friends felt or understood...and she knew Jaime felt it too. She would watch him at sparring practice, his shoulders flexing and his gasp as his instructor drove him back, and their eyes would meet, and look away. Or she would be moving carefully through the steps of a gavotte with her dancing master and her gaze would cross Jaime's, looking at her across the room. They would look quickly away, feeling a jolting thrill along every nerve. The shame they felt did not make the desire less powerful; indeed, it seemed to make it worse. They could speak of it to no one; their memory of Joanna's horror assured that. They were monstrous, they were set apart from everyone, and that secret they could not share had wed them for good and all to each other, and it frightened them.  
  
And so they spurned their easy old comradeship, and turned away from each other - he to his sparring partners and the master-at-arms, she to her friends and her tutors of dancing and etiquette. Mother could have found no fault with how distant they were. And when their paths did cross - when she and her friends would stop outside the sparring yard to watch, her friends with ill-concealed infatuation while she would drop mocking observations on Jaime's every slip and blunder at the sword and lance. He would glare at her, and mock her back (her insults were always better, she remembered with pride), and on rare but memorable occasions after an especially cutting remark, he would grab her off her feet, carry her to the nearest mud-puddle and dump her in it, or pin her wrists and tickle her mercilessly until she scratched him hard enough to draw blood and break away hissing imprecations - and everyone around would roar with laughter. _That_ was all right, _that_ was just brothers and sisters fighting like cats and dogs, everyone thought that was funny and just as it should be. They didn't know about the moments of languor that stole over her, the heat she felt the few times they touched (even fighting) when she longed to relax against him and give in to it. _Oh let him, let me_...and she would tear away leaving bleeding scratches on Jaime, who would curse while their companions laughed, and she knew the guilty flush on Jaime's face meant that he had felt what she had, and she knew that one or the other of them would provoke another fight just to feel it again, and that someday...and she would shy away from the thought and they would be apart again for weeks, that beautiful, unbearable summer.  
  
 Rarely, weary of the strain and feeling unutterably lonely despite their train of eager followers, they would declare a truce for a time from both their guilt and their longing, and join hands and play like much younger children than they were. They would let the sheep or the swine loose on the common while the herders hissed curses and chased them, and the market women rushed to save their wares, while she and Jaime and their followers would giggle  at the frenzy. It was on one of those forays that they had seen the mummers...and THAT'S what this reminds me of, Cersei thought, shaking herself out of a half-doze. That troupe of mummers.  
  
  Father had maintained strict mourning for years after Joanna's death whenever he was at Casterley Rock, but he left Genna in charge of the household, and she was far more lenient...and when the travelling players had come to Lannisport, she had even invited them up to the Rock, and there in the great central courtyard they had, night after night, run through their entire repertoire, their largest wagonbed cunningly converted to a stage, a tent they set up behind it serving as backstage. Cersei and Jaime had watched enthralled with the rest of the court at the comedy of Lann the Clever, shuddered at The Lord of the Woeful Countenance, and even been mostly entertained by the religious allegories that they'd put on to mollify the septons. And she and Jaime and their friends had begun to explore backstage and marvel at the contrast between it and the illusion of the stage. The gorgeous costumes of the lords and ladies of legend were mostly cheap sateen and cheesecloth, and even the real velvet and silk of the leading players was sadly worn. The armor was gilded wood and tin that sent Jaime and his friends into gales of laughter. The tiny backstage was a smelly vortex of cursing, frantic, unwashed players desperately untangling themselves from one costume to another, muttering over their lines amidst a wild tangle of clothes, props and chamber pots. The leader of the company was an elderly graybeard with nothing to distinguish him but a mellifluous baritone voice. He would take the small but important parts of the King or the God or the Septon whose decrees or revelations would put things in order at the end of the play, and would stay backstage the rest of the time directing the others, that sonorous voice softening to encourage a soubrette paralyzed with stage fright, rising to a ringing height when explaining to the lead how his climactic speech should be declaimed, softening to whispered directions to the players as the audience gathered, prompting them in an undertone when they hesitated in their lines, handing the props, cuing the others in their entrances and exits - all in absolute soothing calm. And somehow under his direction those panicky smallfolk in ragged costume and smeared greasepaint DID become again the fearful lord, the heroic knight, and Cersei had been drawn in to the drama all over again despite what she had seen backstage a moment before.  
  
  That was what Cersei was reminded of now. Peasant was finishing the queen's coiffure - an artfully artless-looking graceful knot that would go well with the simple crown (a narrow silver band formed of delicately graven doves) that one servant had just brought in and unwrapped from velvet. Other messengers rushed in and out of the Council chamber to whisper to the Queen briefly. She would dismiss one with a quick word and he would immediately be replaced by others, one carrying a silk-lined cloak of silver-grey fur that Peasant and Frostbite proceeded to arrange on their mistress. The whirl of seeming chaos of people dashing in and out, with the queen the calm center, in apparently complete control, like that mummer had been so long ago.  
  
 That mummer had respectfully told them he'd modelled his most imperial gestures after Lord Tywin's, when he'd once had the honor of observing him preside at court. Ever afterwards, Cersei would look with a sharper eye at Tywin's speech and gestures at court with his lords, recognizing with a thrill those gestures, that intonation, and understanding how it moved his men, how he cowed them, broke them down and built them up to use against each other as he required.  
  
  Of course, unlike the mummer, Tywin had _real_ power. Yet Tywin's father had had that same power and no one had respected him. Tywin had been bold and skillful in the use of his power, but for years after the Tarbecks and the Reynes, he had hardly needed to lift a finger to prove himself again. Anyone with the slightest wit who met Tywin and heard him speak knew that he was capable of doing again what he had done, and of far worse. They knew it due to his skilled deployment of cold looks, gestures and tones that could turn the harmless-seeming allusions of his brilliantly improvised speeches and commands into pointed threats. It had made her realize how much of politics was theater, the miming of gestures of power to enact true power.  
  
  And now this girl is doing the same, and I am to be one of the spear-carriers in _her_ play. When Tywin had stormed about on his own stage and his people had watched and shuddered, she had thrilled, and wished for her own moment to move and frighten the audience into doing her will. But now she was about to set foot on the stage of power again, and to speak her piece - her small but important part - and she was afraid. Fail and the consequences would be far worse than a few jeers and rotten eggs flung from a Lannisport common. Myrcella and Tommen...  
  
  Jaime was going over again with her what she must confess, starting from the the illegitimacy of the children, through the attempted murder of Bran, and so forth, the facts all there but slightly altered. Cersei repeated them in a numb whisper, her mind scrambling to hold on to them, not seeming to succeed...she wanted more wine, but she couldn't shake the dreamlike feeling that the last cup had given her, that was shading now toward nightmare...Myrcella and Tommen came back to huddle near her as the rest of the Council filed in. Some people she did not know, some she did (Bronze Yohn Royce whom she had met at some tedious state visit to the Vale long ago, sat in the Hand's chair). And - it MUST be a nightmare - a ghost came in, young King Robert as he'd been when she'd married him, striding in and meeting her gaze coldly.  
  
  "Gendry Waters, Speaker for the Commons," the queen swiftly introduced him, seeing Cersei's shock.  
  
  Of course...one of those children. She could see now the slight differences in the features, and the mighty scar on the cheek that Robert had never sported...and yet the resemblance was so strong, and his accusatory look so like the one she would expect Robert to give her if he HAD come back to life that she had to look away.  
  
  The queen briefly reviewed with her councillors what she and Cersei had agreed to; judging from their lack of surprise or questions, it was nothing they hadn't discussed already, the queen merely apprising her Council that Cersei had agreed to her terms.  
  
  The Hand nodded briefly. "Your Grace, I and my fellows of the Council have told you our thoughts on this matter. Your show of mercy is a powerful gesture which will surely move many, all the more so considering how you and your family have suffered from the Lannisters' cause." He turned a chill gaze on Cersei, Myrcella and Tommen. "Yet we agree that some may still consider it a sign of weakness on your part. Many have suffered for the Lannisters' sake. And some will argue that the cause of peace you espouse would be best served by blotting this family out."  
  
  "So you have said, and so it may be." Sansa answered quietly. "Yet I think my plan will serve the cause of peace best. I will take the risk."  
  
  Bronze Yohn shrugged. "You have enough goodwill amongst your subjects that this decision of yours will not greatly endanger your reign at this time. Still, I think such political capital is ill-spent on this cause, considering the trouble they may yet bring you." The councillors' looks at Cersei and her children all mirrored Bronze Yohn's expression of doubt and hostility. Cersei found herself looking imploringly at the queen, the only one who showed the least sign of compassion. Sansa locked gazes with Cersei. "There will be no trouble. And our mind is made up."  
  
  Royce bowed his head. "That being your will, let us have done with it." At Sansa's answering nod, the councillors rose and left the chamber. The queen got to her feet and her ladies swiftly took up the short train of her cloak. Jaime took Cersei's arm, and flanked by Myrcella and Tommen, they made their way in the queen's wake toward the throne room, the Hound and other guards surrounding them. It's going to happen, it's going to happen _now_ , Cersei thought in a panic.  
  
  The queen fell into step beside her. "Be convincing, my lady. You see that I am rowing against the current. Help me. Move them. Persuade them. Myrcella and Tommen depend upon it."  
  
  "I don't know if..." Cersei whispered.  
  
  "You can. You will," said the queen. She gestured them forward into the throne room. The councillors stood around the Iron Throne, with rank on rank of Westeros' highborn crowded around them. Jaime brought them to stand next to the door, in the supplicants' place.  
  
  The herald raised his voice. "All hail Her Grace, Sansa of House Stark, first of her name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Regent of the Dragon Imperatrix."  
  
  Sansa made her entrance, striding gracefully toward the throne. At the foot of it, her ladies draped the end of her train over her arm and stepped away, and Sansa ascended the steps alone. Cersei found herself holding her breath as she set her feet upon the blades and rose higher and higher - Joffrey had often cut himself on those swords, and more than one ruler in the past had been literally killed by that throne. But Sansa reached the top and seated herself, resting her hands on the blackened sharp steel of the arms. Sitting where Joffrey sat...a wave of weakness went over her, and Jaime caught her sharply as she reeled.  
  
  "Let her be seated," the queen's voice rang out, unruffled. There was a murmur of protest from the crowd, that the prisoner should have the courtesy of being allowed to sit in the queen's presence. A page brought a chair, and as Cersei sank into it, she felt all eyes upon her. She defiantly met their gazes. She had wondered if the court would see the way she had aged, and believe that the queen had tortured her to force a confession from her. She was oddly relieved to see that she did not look greatly different from those around her. There was the High Sparrow, thin and drawn with burning eyes, as if his hatred of the world had consumed him from within. There was Tyrion, standing by the throne, staring levelly at her. His hair was grey as her own, and his noseless skull-like face looked worse than ever, weathered and with newer scars. All those that she recognized looked half-starved, worn and aged, grizzled as if the melting frost still held them in its grip. They had suffered too, and she felt fiercely glad of it.  
  
  She heard the queen speaking, and forced herself to concentrate.  
  
  "...that the smallfolk have called me Our Lady of Peace. I haven't taken it as a title, for I do not yet deserve it. It is my fondest wish to be worthy of such a name. But I have ordered men into battle in just cause, and seen the sons of lords and smallfolk die and their blood spilled on the snow. I have followed after and seen all sides mourning their dead, their women and children starving, leaving the survivors with matter enough for vengeance till the end of time. But we have all seen the dead rise, the Others attack. We have seen the triumph of death and eternal winter over the world, and fought for another dawn - a fight that still goes on." Sansa's voice, high and sweet, carried to the back of the chamber, and her eyes swept the crowd. "In the light of that hard-won dawn, I've seen that wetting my hands in innocent blood would do no honor to my dead. I renounce vengeance to ensure justice be done and a lasting peace forged from it."  
  
  A faint mutter from the crowd.  
  
  "Justice requires the sparing of the innocent. It also requires the punishment of the guilty. And peace for the realm requires  untangling the knot of Royal claims that would undermine the realm. In the interest of justice to her blameless children, Lady Cersei has agreed to make confession of her crimes and accept  her due punishment, as will Lord Jaime..."

  In brief words, the queen outlined the agreement - the confession of the illegitimacy of Cersei's children, of the attempted murder of Bran Stark, of King Robert himself, in full knowledge of the death sentence meted out for those crimes. Justice having been done, mercy would be granted to Tommen and Myrcella Hill. The use of the name of Lannister would be allowed them by royal decree, and Tyrion Lannister would renounce his claim on Casterley Rock. "Do you so agree, Lord Tyrion, Hand of the Dragon Imperatrix?"

  "Speaking as her Hand, I vouch that the Dragon approves of this agreement. As for my ancestral home..." The Imp's face twisted in a smirk. Cersei felt a nauseous swell of hate. "Casterley Rock doesn't deserve me," he continued airily. "Neither the best nor the worst of me. Since Tommen has unaccountably decided to take holy orders..." his nephew nodded mutely, "...it falls to his sister. Myrcella and Trystane will rule it well, and may have my claim and my blessing."

  "So be your words witnessed by all, and mine as well." She looked at Cersei. "If Lady Cersei and Lord Jaime make their confessions, they shall be sentenced to execution in a manner befitting their ranks, and in return for this expiation of their crimes, I would vow to carry out these agreements I have publically consented to, and protect Lord Tommen and Lady Myrcella as I would my most loyal subjects." She had kept her word as to what she would say before the court. The rest was up to Cersei.  
  
  The murmuring of the crowd was louder. The queen's power over them was not absolute. She had set the agreement before them, making no futile attempt to hide its compromises. It was not the Starks alone who had suffered; anyone who'd had a brother or a son die in the war would feel he had a grievance against the family who had started the war for their own perverse ambitions. Many would not be satisfied with the solution of offering up herself and Jaime as a sop to propitiate them to spare Myrcella and Tommen. For those, a simple beheading for Cersei would not do; a second walk of shame through the street for herself AND her children, followed by drawing and quartering of them all would suit those people far better.  
  
  Then there were those who were not as bloodthirsty, but would still prefer her children to die, lest they be used by future rebels for their Baratheon claims to the throne. Those would fear that her confession would not be convincing enough to scotch those claims for good - that future Lannister sympathizers would say her confession was coerced and false. It was Cersei's task to convince them of her sincerity and deprive future factions of their strength in the coming years.  
  
  How can I? she thought, looking at the hard gleam of those hostile eyes. Anger roiled in her again, fury that they should sit in judgment on her, look at her with such contempt.

_I could refuse to follow the script,_ she thought. I could stand up now and denounce the queen, say she's trying to force me to lie about the children's right to the throne, condemn her and everyone here for trying to force this sham on me, curse everyone here who's longing to see me crawl. It would make the queen lose countenance, certainly, all her carefully choreographed deals blowing up in her face. But the queen could survive that. Myrcella and Tommen, on the other hand...  
  
  She looked at them. Tommen was looking at her with the paralyzed terror of a deer caught in a lantern-beam; Myrcella was biting a trembling lip, glaring hopeless fury at her. They were _expecting_ her to lash out, Cersei realized, stricken. They were _expecting_ her to forget the agreements and scream her rage and mockery, and doom them all, uncaring of anything but her wounded vanity. Even Jaime was looking at her with tense doubt.  
  
  "Lady Cersei." It was time to mount the stage.  
  
  Cersei looked up at the queen. Sansa returned her gaze; there was no doubt or fear in her eyes. "Lady Cersei of House Lannister, once Queen Consort of the Realm," She held out a hand to Cersei, as if to help her rise from her seat. "Come before me."  
  
  Galvanized, Cersei got to her feet. She shook off Jaime's attempt to help her and strode down the aisle toward the foot of the throne. She held her head high and met the hostile gazes of the crowd unflinchingly. I can do this, she thought. Am I not Tywin Lannister's daughter?

  
  She made her bow to the queen at the foot of the throne, then turned to the crowd. "I wish firstly to thank Her Grace the queen, though I will meet my death at her hand, for her merciful pledge to spare and protect my blameless children from the sins of their mother." She gave Sansa a hard look. _I'm holding you to it_. Sansa nodded at her, unoffended, gestured at her to go on.  
  
  Cersei turned back to the crowd. "I here make confession of my sins before you all."  
  
  She took a deep breath, and began by telling them the plain truth about her wedding-night with Robert...  
  
  She captured them from the start; they were fascinated despite themselves by the secrets she had so carefully guarded, which she now flung at them with abandon. She painted a lurid picture of herself as a sinful woman, her pride hurt by her husband's love for dead Lyanna, and his oafishness in not concealing it. She spoke of her anger at Robert's adultery and his beatings, then (having mentioned them) excused Robert for his sins and heaped extravagant abuse on herself for cuckolding the noble king with her illicit lover to salve her wounded pride, and depriving him of his rightful legitimate children. She wept as she condemned her shallow vanity, her unforgiving cruelty, her unwomanly ambitions and greed for power, her insatiable lust - tears came easily, after all that had happened today, but she had to fight an impulse to laugh in the faces of her captivated audience. As one the court leaned forward in fascination, drinking in every word; no one had witnessed such an enthralling spectacle since the dragon had flown over King's Landing.

  She went quickly over Jaime's attempted murder of Bran when he had overheard them discuss her guilt (it was nothing she was fond of remembering), then went on to describe her plot to murder the king when Eddard Stark had been about to reveal her infidelity and her children's illegitimacy to the king. A final heaping of lamentations and anathemas on her sinful, treacherous woman's heart, a fervent acceptance of the punishment due her worthless self, tearful pleas that the guilt of the mother not be visited on the children...she felt no impulse to laugh with that. She looked at the crowd, staring rapt at her; she still held them.  
  
  "I beg of you all, in the years to come, to emulate your good queen in her mercy and forbearance toward Myrcella and Tommen. They are guilty of nothing I have done, and for my own crimes and faults I gladly offer up my own life; I abjure them, I repent, I confess, I thank the queen in her mercy and her gods-given wisdom."  
  
  She fell silent. A great sigh came from the crowd, as if they had been holding their breaths until now. The queen nodded at her approvingly. Then she turned to call Jaime before the throne. The Hound came up behind Cersei as she stood swaying in exhaustion and led her firmly out of the Throne Room. _They have what they need of me, and they fear I'll ruin it somehow if I stay,_ she thought, and fell into a half-faint, feeling distantly the guards pick her up and carry her back to her cell.


End file.
